


we would make a good story

by mallory



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, Humor, LLF Comment Project, Romance, or about as much romance you can squeeze from these two loser teens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 14:53:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3294503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mallory/pseuds/mallory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I was thinking you were crazy as hell</i><br/><i>And you were so innocent</i><br/><i>But you were stealing my heart</i><br/><i>I fell in love in the back of a cop car</i><br/>(unfortunately titled) 'Cop Car' - Keith Urban</p><p>Amy finds herself climbing into Jake Peralta’s truck one night. The boy she’s known from afar takes her to the other side of the city and shows her exactly how to have some fun in between breaking the law, their customary teasing, pissing off police officers, and surprisingly tender moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we would make a good story

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from inspiration of fic.
> 
> Thanks so much to [Sadie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sadesmae/pseuds/sadesmae) for offering her opinion and kindly taking time out of her busy life to beta this monster. (And I'm sorry, but American spelling in my own work makes my eye twitch.) Much love.
> 
> Edited: 12/5/16.

“James, coaster,” Amy hisses, pegging one at her older brother across the living room.

He only rolls his eyes at her, and whips the cardboard to Ben on the other side of the couch. “Lighten the fuck up, Mustard.”

“Don’t call me that!” she snaps back. “And tell your jerk of a friend to stop climbing on the kitchen table. We _eat_ there.”

Seriously. Their parents aren’t gone for more than two hours and already her brothers are throwing a party. (She had thought that with the four oldest having moved out their home it would get quieter, but the remaining three still cause just as much damage as the seven of them together.) Not only that, but Alex’s friend keeps hitting on her.

Ugh. Speaking of.

“Hey, Ames.” Sidling up next to her, Douché grins down at her, breath reeking of alcohol. He offers her his cup. “Want some?”

(She’s been calling him ‘Douché’ for so long she’s forgotten his actual name.)

Wrinkling her nose, she pushes away from him. “No thanks. I’m still seventeen.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t!” he laughs after her.

“Fuck off, man,” Ben says before hollering, “Yo, where you going?”

“Out!” she calls back, stepping over a red plastic cup on her way to the front door.

“Make sure you have your phone.”

She lifts it from her jean pocket and waves it above her head. As soon as the door slams shut behind her, muffling the sounds of what her brothers call ‘music’ to dull thumping, Amy lets out a breath, blowing out her bangs.

Crossing her arms under her chest, she blindly frowns down at the porch. She didn’t shown it at the time—heck, even acknowledged it—but what James said made an effect on her. _Lighten up_. She’s heard it hundreds of times before, sometimes in ways more vulgar than how James had said it tonight.

There’s nothing wrong with being proper and following the rules.

 _Then why does it feel so lonely?_ a voice whispers from the darkest corner of her mind.

Sighing, Amy takes a seat on the top step, pushing up her glasses along her nose. She’s in her senior year now and she can’t remember a time in her high school career where she had _fun_. And not finishing her ten page assignment a week before the due date kind of fun. The thrilling and adrenaline pumping kind of fun—like breaking into the school for a small pool party (Ben) or skinny dipping with a bunch of friends (Alex). She only has two friends, and Amy knows they wouldn’t like the idea of bending the rules, for fear of disapproval more than  _lightening up_.

A rusty, metal rumbling fades onto her street before a loud, shrill honk disturbs her steadily depressing train of thought.

“Oi!”

Squeezing her eyes shut, Amy sighs in defeat.  _Peralta_.

“You having a party, Santiago? And you didn’t invite me? I’m offended!”

Squinting out onto the street, Amy makes him out in the old blue truck. Plaid sticking to the slim arm that’s hanging out of the window. His grin is crooked as he sticks his head out, eyebrows raised, waiting for her answer.

_Lighten the fuck up, Mustard._

Annoyance fills her bones, spreading like wildfire into her system, and before she knows it, she’s running down the steps of her porch, across her front lawn and up to the immature nineteen year old who’s looking more and more surprised with every stomp toward him.

“You doing anything tonight?” she asks. (Okay, more like demand. It came out harsher than she intended, but she’s on a roll here trying to prove a point.)

His mouth drops open and she has half a mind to tap the underside of his jaw. “Uh…” He blinks. “What?”

“I want to have fun tonight.”

That seems to snap him out of his haze, as his grin crawls back across his thick lips. “Well, you came to the right guy. Hop on board the fun train. Whoo-whoo!”

Rolling her eyes, she rounds the front of the truck, muttering to herself, “Dork.”

Amy’s known Jake Peralta since her freshman year when her brother Alex—a sophomore at the time—had gotten into a prank war with their rival high school. She had been sitting on the brick wall that surrounds the front of the school’s courtyard in her first week and this old blue truck drove by slowly.

There were two guys in the truck bed with four large containers filled with rubber balls, but the one in the driver’s seat caught her attention. He was watching her with a goofy grin on his face, his braces glinting in the sunlight. When he rolled up to her, he poked his head through the open window. She was charmed by how ‘cool’ he was trying to be as he asked her whether she went to school there.

It was so obvious he was flirting with her, making jokes as they were talking about the Yankees’ game that Saturday. He was wearing a look on his face like she saved his puppy’s life, when Alex called for her from the doors of the school. She jumped down from the wall and started to apologise and bid a farewell when Jake stopped her with an eager rush of her name.

“Why is Alex Santiago yelling for you? Are you dating him?” he asked.

“Ew, no!” She immediately recoiled at that. “He’s my brother!”

His mouth twisted and he snapped his fingers. “Damn. And just when I was starting to fall in like with you.” Then he tapped on the little window behind him and all hell broke loose—in the form of hundreds of bouncy balls.

She remembers, through Jake’s pitchy “Goodbye Amy Santiago!” drifting away, the distinct whine in Alex’s scream of “Damn it, Peralta!” as he stumbled over and caught her before she fell on her butt.

Since then, she did her best to avoid the mischievous, juvenile boy. He’s harmless, in all honesty, but Amy doesn’t know a lot about him to pass much judgement. She knows he’s the same age as Alex, is currently a freshman at NYU, and his grandmother used to call him ‘Pineapples’ (Alex somehow had found out and sent a disturbing amount of phone calls to his house calling him ‘Pineapples’ in strange voices).

Glancing at him now from the corner of her eye, as he hums off-key to the Britney Spears song on the radio, Amy rakes her gaze down and scrutinizes his appearance. Under his unbuttoned plaid shirt is a black t-shirt of a band of which she’s never heard. His dark grey jeans look worn-in and old and there’s ripped at his knee where she sees his pale skin. It’s too dark to see, but she’s sure that on his feet are his customary black Chuck Taylors.

“Checkin’ me out?”

Jolting back in her seat and accidentally kicking the open packet of chips at her feet (she’s not surprised how filthy his truck is), Amy’s eyes fly up to meet his teasing ones. “N-no!”

“S’cool. We can totally make out if you think I’m hot.”

Her cheeks heat up and her hand reaches out to the door handle, gripping it tightly.

His laughter fills the cab of the truck, the sound almost suffocating her.

“Where are we going?” she asks, trying to steer the topic in another direction.

“Middle earth. Haven’t been there in a while.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“My old high school.”

* * *

So if you told Jake that when he hopped in his truck tonight and went for a drive, that he would happen upon the youngest Santiago and pick her up to hang at the place where he had spent most of his time fucking around, he’d laugh in your face and tell you to show him where you were hiding your happy pills (and if he could have some).

But oh look. Here they are.

It’s totally weird that they’re hanging out together. What with her being his nemesis’ sister and all.

He steals a glance at her, and he can’t help but smile at how stiff she looks. He must’ve scared her when he joked about her checking him out. Her back is uncomfortably straight, her hands are neatly clasped in her lap, and her legs are pressed together. She’s staring straight ahead, the lights that fly by reflecting off her big glasses, and the wind that’s rushing in through his open window tease at the ends of her hair. Even her clothes look perfect; ironed and brand new: her skinny jeans are a light blue and bare no holes, her modest red top is hidden underneath a thin black cardigan.

He doesn’t know why he agreed to take her out tonight. He’s known her since sophomore year, since he pulled that rubber ball prank on Alex. He could never forget that day. The prank was pretty awesome, if he does say so himself. But it isn’t the prank that he replays over in his head. It’s Amy. She was a little dorky and loads uppity-looking. (She looks the same now, but he guesses he’s used to it so he doesn’t notice it anymore.) But he was so surprised and a little impressed when not only did she start listing batting and pitching stats, but she kept up with his teasing. He would have deemed her the girl of his dreams right then and there. Until he learned of her connection to Santiago.

He supposes that the reason why he stayed away was because of Alex. And not because of some bro code, but because he was resentful of the guy.

Alex was a great prankster, managing to pull one over him loads of times. And he has cool brothers, something Jake doesn’t have. Another thing Alex has that Jake doesn’t is a father. He’s seen them a few times at the park playing basketball, as a family. They all looked super happy and like they loved each other. The guys would tease Amy, but she would never cry like he thought she would; she’d pull an angry face and give as good as she got. Their mom would watch from the sidelines, making them sandwiches while their dad would sometimes help, otherwise he’d be in on the game too. Something would always stir in Jake’s stomach and he’d look away with a heaviness that weighs him down so much it took a lot of effort to pedal away on his scratched-up bike.

If he were to take a page from that high school counsellor, he’d say that his jealous feelings toward Alex leaked into the whole family and what they have.

Or something like that. He doesn’t know; it’s totally bogus.

* * *

The only times Amy had ever been to her school’s rival, Jefferson High, was to support her brothers and their sporting teams. She remembers how after their last game of the season, win or lose, their parents would take them out for ice cream until closing time. It had been a tradition since she could remember, but as the boys started NY Academy, their time together eventually reduced to an hour, before they’d eventually leave to hang out with their friends and teammates. It used to be her favourite part of the year because it was the only time they’d all be together; her loud, rambunctious family. Sure, she’d be teased, put into headlocks, and constantly called ‘Mustard’, but they’d ask her about how she was doing in her AP classes and they always had a good time, laughing and competing on who could eat their ice cream the fastest (they’d always leave the parlour with incredible brain freeze).

(She never wins, but they never treat her like a helpless baby and let her, which would be much worse.)

Now, as Jake drives past the no trespassing sign of the open gates leading to Jefferson High’s large baseball field, Amy feels a strange sense of nostalgia for the life she never experienced. With her nose pressed in her books, she missed out on a lot in her high school career. She joined clubs she believed would get her into a good college, but of the three, she honestly doesn’t enjoy any one of them as a hobby.

He parks right in the middle of the field, on top of the pitcher’s mound. Killing the engine, he reaches behind her seat for something before climbing out. “Lez go!”

She glances down at her pale pink ballet flats as they hit the ground, careful not to kick up the dirt into her shoes. Surveying the area around her, Amy pulls a face at the pair of boxer shorts hanging from the field lights. They’re not on, but there’s enough brightness from the streetlights that surround the field.

“Amy,” Jake sings, tugging on her hair from behind her.

“Hey!” She spins swiftly, reaching back to smooth down her hair as she shoots a look at him from where he sits in the bed of the truck.

“C’mon.” He motions for her, and she makes her way to the tailgates.

She sucks in a breath when she catches sight of his work. A picnic blanket is spread over the bottom of the truck bed, and there’s a big flashlight perched on the corner of the blanket, the light attract the little bugs and dust from the bed, and they dance in chaotic synchronicity against the white backdrop. “Do you take all the girls out stargazing from the back of your truck?”

He offers her his hand, pulling her up until she’s standing face-to-face with him. “Nah. Sometimes I don’t need the truck. We’ll lie on the grass, sweaty and naked after hav— _Oomph_.”

It’s only after he starts laughing and her hand is throbbing from punching him on the arm that she realises that he was teasing her. “That’s not funny.”

“Ow, how’d you learn to punch so hard?” he huffs. “I was kidding. Why so serious all the time?”

“Why are you never serious?” she growls back automatically. (It’s a habit from growing up with seven brothers—not that she’s making excuses for her rude behaviour. She’s not.)

Not a second later, guilt sobers her up, like a rush of cold water icing her skin. Before she can apologise, he’s sighing and dropping to take a seat.

“I dunno.”

She lowers herself slowly next to him, unable to bring herself to look at him.

“When I was fifteen, they made me go to see the school’s counsellor and she said it was because I was compensating for the fact that my father abandoned me and my mom. Something about attention.”

“Oh,” she murmurs, drawing her hands into her lap.

“Why be serious when being silly is more fun? You only live once, y’know.”

She nods absently.

* * *

“So why’d you demand I take you out tonight?”

Exhaling softly, she leans back until she’s staring up at the dark sky. He follows suit, squinting up at the freckles of stars twinkling down at them. She’s quiet for a moment, and he’s starting to think she’s ignoring him until she utters quietly, “My brothers tease me about having a stick up my butt all the time.”

He snorts, turning his head to look at the side of her face. Her big-rimmed glasses are gone, and she looks super different. Like, more open. As if she was hiding behind a mask that covered half her face. The little eyelashes brush against the tip of her cheekbones as she blinks, still watching the night sky. The shadows from the streetlights and the moon shine on her face. She looks like she’s glowing dimly, like an angel-in-training or something.

“It didn’t really bothered me until tonight.” She shrugs, and her shoulders brush against his. He likes the feeling, so he shifts a little closer, and she bites her bottom lip. It’s only when he wiggles against her that she starts talking again. “I’m in my senior year, and it hit me that I can’t remember one time when I let loose and did something for me. It’s the worst time to do this,” she laughs, but it doesn’t sound like a _haha-that’s-funny_ laugh. “There’s all this stress about high school ending, finals being next month, and Mom wants to take me to a few of the college campuses to help me narrow down my decision.” She rolls her head to look at him, and her eyes widen slightly, like she’s surprised (that he’s looking at her? that he’s this close?). “Is college as tough as it sounds?”

“Tougher,” he admits. “But I slack off. From what I’ve heard about you, you’ll fit in fine—no problem.” He smiles, and her eyes dash down to his mouth. He has no idea why he wants to reassure her so badly. Maybe it’s because they’ve both come to an unspoken agreement on nothing but honesty. That for tonight, they’re just two people. Chillin’. “What about prom?”

“Oh.” She lifts her eyes to his, and he has like, the weirdest urge to _kiss_ her or something. “That’s next week, but I’m not going."

He frowns. “Why not?” Then he gives her a teasing expression just so that feeling will go away and he can get some normalcy here, god. “Can’t find a date?”

“Yeah.”

“I—I was kidding,” he splutters, and moves to sit up on his elbow, turning onto his side to look down at her. “Did no one ask you to prom?”

“Well, considering who my brothers are,  _yeah_ ,” she exasperates.

“But dude! There is something wrong with those people. See? Jefferson High is  _totally_ better than NY Academy. There must be something wrong with that place. With the water or whatever.”

She pulls a face and it scrunches the bridge of her nose. Half of him wants to laugh because it makes her look like she ate something sour. The other half wants to kiss the tip of her nose and sniff her hair. (What is wrong with him?) “Please don’t call me ‘dude’.”

“But  _dude_!” He gestures at her, flapping his wrist.

A laugh bubbles out of her lips, and he does the wrist thing again just so he can hear more. “Stop it.” Grabbing his hand, she yanks it down to her stomach and he can feel the muscles contracting under his fingers as her happy sound fills his chest. When she blinks her eyes open, the laughter dies in her throat when they land on him. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she whispers.

His brows meet as he tilts his head. “Like what?”

“Like you’re about to kiss me.”

His gaze flickers down to her lips. They’re shiny, but not _shiny_ -shiny. They look nice and smooth instead of gooey like a lot of girls’ lips. He wonders if she’ll taste like how her happy sound felt. “What if I am?” he mumbles, slowly dropping his head.

She hums, and he’s so close he can almost feel the vibrations against his mouth.

“Hey! You’re not supposed to be here!”

_Shit._

* * *

“Officer, I can explain,” Jake says, shuffling forward to hook his legs over the edge of the tailgate.

Amy squints, bringing a hand up to shield her eyes from the harsh headlights radiating from the police car parked behind the truck.

“We have a permission slip. We’re allowed to be here.”

The two police officers, not much older than her, share a glance before approaching them with firm expressions. They look like overeager cops fresh out of the academy, with their pristine uniform and shiny shoes, and aspiring to impress their superiors. (She takes a second to bask in the irony.)

She taps him on the small of his back. “Jake, I don’t think—”

His hand falls to rest on the side of her thigh, and the heat of his palm absorbs through her jeans, eliciting goosebumps across her body. “Shhh. It’s cool, Amy. I got it.”

“You’re trespassing,” the policewoman declares, crossing her arms.“You two need to leave.”

“I told you,” Jake sighs and leans back slightly to reach into his jean pocket with his free hand. “Look, if you’ll just—”

The officers leap back and draw their guns, and Amy squeaks as she throws her hands up. “Whoa, whoa!” the policeman yells the same time the woman shouts, “Hands where we can see them!”

* * *

Dude Cop slams Jake against the side of his truck. “Is this really neces— _Hey_ , watch where you put those hands!” Jake yelps. He twists his head to grin at him. “You need to buy me dinner  _at least_ twice before we get to second base. I’m not  _that_ easy.”

Amy stifles a laugh from beside him where Lady Cop is frisking her, and he turns his smile on her. She looks dumbstruck and a little panicked. She needs to chill.

They ignore him and step back to read the paper from the jean pocket Jake had been reaching for before all the dramatic and unnecessary gunplay.

“Psst,” Jake whispers, nudging Amy with his elbow. “You know what would be fun?”

“It’s a receipt from Walmart,” Lady Cop gripes.

Amy smiles a little, and it softens her eyes. “What?” He can’t help thinking that she looks nice against the backdrop of red and white lights from the patrol car painting every surface in the field. They bring out her eyes, somehow. It draws some kind of sparkle out of those warm browns. The lights shine against her hair as it swoops around in the gentle breeze. A lot messier than it was hours ago, but it’s better. It makes her seem less perfect and more human. Attainable.

“Let’s run.”

Her eyes widen, but the sparkly-ness doesn’t fade away like her smile does. “ _What_?”

“C’mon. You can go back to your brothers and brag about how cool you were tonight. It’ll totally be an epic story. You’ll be a legend.”

She casts a nervous glance behind her where Lady Cop is narrowing her eyes at them. “Jake…”

“They won’t shoot. They’re not allowed. I checked.”

“You’re crazy,” she states quietly, but there’s a faint smile dancing across her face.

“Chicken?” He tilts his head slightly, unable to contain his own smile.

"Shut up. A legend, huh?"

“No more stick up your butt comments.”

“I can’t believe I’m actually considering this.” She lets out a breath, flashes him a smirk so devious on her innocent face, it takes him a second before he realises that she’s dashing to the front of the truck.

Letting out a whoop, he races after her.

The cops scramble after them, shouting naughty, unprofessional words (for _shame_ ).

They don’t get far, only passing the third base plate when they’re tackled down, and he’s moaning in pain about how the cuffs are slapped around his wrists.

“Nice try,” Dude Cop grunts.

“It was all Amy’s idea,” he winces as the metal tightens around his wrists. “She made me do it.”

“Hey!” she protests, glaring at him with her cheek on the ground a few inches from him.

They’re led to the cop car, and she flashes him an anxious look.

“Ow-hey!” he yelps when Dude Cop pushes at his head. “Watch the head, valuable things are stored in there.”

“Jake,” Amy murmurs as soon as she’s seated next to him in the back, and he can practically  _see_ the nervous energy radiating from her in waves.

“Do you trust me?”

“We’re in handcuffs because you thought it would be fun trying to run,” she states dryly.

He grins. “And wasn’t it?”

She bites her lip before admitting heavily, “Yes,” like it took all of her strength to say.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I don’t really know you.”

He doesn’t know why, but he  _needs_ to know her answer like he needs to know why exactly Gwen Stacy  _had to die_. There’s this weight on his chest and he feels like he can’t breathe right. “Trust me,” he whispers, and it almost sounds like he’s begging, which normally he’s too cool for. It’s weird he doesn’t care that he sounds like a loser, because Amy’s not looking at him like he is.

Her head tilts as the beginnings of her brows lift, and a ghost of a smile paints across her mouth. “Okay.”

He sticks his head out of the open car door and calls for Dude Cop. “Call Detective Scully at the 99,” he tells him. “Tell him it’s Jake Peralta.” With a mistrustful look, Warren—as his name plate says—returns to the hood of the car where Lady Cop is writing in her pink notepad.

Amy shifts beside him. “Do you really know a Detective Scully?”

“He owes me. I tackled a perp he was chasing and basically closed his case.”

He had been minding his own business, walking out of a gelato shop when there was shouting around the corner, and a moment later, someone rounded the corner and slammed into him. Money sprinkled down around them as Jake landed on a scruffy-looking dude wearing his delicious hazelnut ice cream.

He revels in the look of surprised admiration that crosses Amy’s face. “Wow. That’s pretty dope.”

Raising his eyebrows, he huffs out a laugh. “Thanks.”

“Does that mean you’ll be a police officer one day?” She smiles, shaking her head a little, like the thought is ridiculous. It is, a little, considering they’re handcuffed in the back of a cop car.

But he shrugs, completely serious. “You never know.”

“Well, I don’t know if I could do it.”

“What? Be a cop? I can see you doing that. Arresting crooks who vandalised, and after reading their Miranda rights, you tell them it’s spelled y-o-u-apostrophe-r-e.”

“And you would high-five them for the inaccurate picture next to it.”

“Hey, that penis would be an accurate representation of whoever that person is.”

Dude Cop comes back with reluctance drooping down his face. “You checked out. Detective Scully said to release you guys if you promise to call him tomorrow.”

“Deal.” Just as Warren’s about to lean forward to help him out, Jake grins at him. “Hey, man. When do you get off shift? You seem like a cool dude. Wanna grab a drink?"

“No,” he snaps.

“Yeah, um.” Amy wiggles in her seat. “Do you have a light?”

Dude Cop looks taken aback.

“She smokes like a chimney.” Jake pulls a face. “I hate the smell, but I can’t get her to stop.”

Amy turns to him, her jaw dropped and eyes bright. “I do not! I stress smoke.”

“Then you must be _so_ stressed out because you smoke a pack a day.”

“That’s what hanging out with you does to me.”

Jake laughs as Dude Cop grunts in indignation, realising they’re poking fun, and slams the car door shut. He makes his way back to Lady Cop and gestures wildly.

“He’s going to keep us here as long as he can, isn’t he?”

“Yep,” he replies, popping his ‘p’. “Do you mind?”

She bites her bottom lip as her mouth curls up. “Nope.”

It smells a little funky back here and the cuffs are digging sharply into his skin, but: “Me neither.” He shifts in his seat and his jeans scrape against the vinyl and a  _prrfhh_ sound erupts loudly. “I didn’t fart,” he immediately says.

Amy’s nose scrunches up as laughter cascades out of her pink lips. They’re not shiny anymore, and there’s a smudge of dirt from when they were tackled.

She looks so… so pretty.

He slides closer to her until their shoulders bump and she rocks away from him before she sways back and knocks their shoulders again.

Her laughing fades until she’s only smiling. The crinkle above her nose smoothed out with only the creases in her cheeks. Still pretty.

“You’re a fun person, Santiago.”

Her eyebrows raise and then the bottom of her eyes lift a little, like she doesn’t believe him. “Thanks, Peralta,” she says eventually, but her voice comes out smooth with quiet happiness. “You’re fun yourself.”

His heart tickles in his chest as she looks up at him with wide brown eyes. “Thanks,” he mutters back, flickering his eyes between her eyes and mouth. He bets his massage chair she tastes like vanilla and fire.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. “Like what?”

“Like you’re going to kiss me.”

He leans forward, nudging her nose with his. “And if I am?”

“Oh- _kay_ ,” Lady Cop says pointedly, throwing the door open, “you’re free to go.”

Jake throws himself back against the seat and groans.  _Unbelieveable_.

* * *

Back in the truck and on their way back to her house, Amy steals a glance at Jake, who’s puffing his cheeks intermittently as he bobs along to the song on the radio she’s never heard before.

The police officers had given them the stink eye as they hurried back to his truck and took off, laughing quietly the whole way there. But Amy’s cheeks were heated with their second almost-kiss of the night. She shivers to herself against the memory of his breath puffing against her mouth before the officers tore them apart.

Her butt buzzes and Amy scrunches her eyebrows into a frown as she shuffles forward. Her phone is jammed into the seat. “ _Crap_ ,” she mutters, staring down at the twenty-eight messages on her screen. She opens the latest one, already cringing at what she’s about to read.

**Ben -** **11:31PM: Amy Serena Santiago u better not be lying in a ditch somewhere or i will kill u myself CALL ME**

The truck rests at a stop light and Jake leans over. “What?”

She tilts her phone so he can read the message.

“Amy Serena Santiago?”

She shuts her eyes, knowing what he’s about to say.

“Your initials are A.S.S? As in  _ass_?” He laughs.

“My grandmother’s name was Serena, okay? My mother wanted to honour her because she died just before I was born.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He clears his throat. “Nice story.”

Sighing, she dials Ben’s number.

“But still,” Jake mumbles as he hits the gas. “Ass.” He snorts, then complains incoherently when she throws out an arm to whack him.

After being sufficiently chastised by her brother—with club music blasting in the background on Ben’s end—Amy hangs the phone up and her head down in shame. How could she have forgotten to check in? She was completely reckless today. Trespassing. Almost getting arrested.  _Goading_ armed officers. She casts accusing eyes to her partner in crime.

_But isn't this exactly what you wanted? Some fun?_

Softening her gaze, she turns back to watch the world rush by in blurs and smudges.

She had so much fun.

She just doesn’t want tomorrow to come.

* * *

Jake takes the long way back to her house.

Amy’s quiet the rest of the way, looking out of her window and sneaking glances at him like she doesn’t think he notices. He notices. How fallen pieces from her ponytail swish around her face from the crack in the windows. How her back isn’t as stiff as before. How her fingers are hooked over the window, wiggling in the cool night air. How her smile is faint and permanent on her dirt-smudged face.

The next thing he knows, they’re pulling up to the front of her house, and neither of them move after he cuts the engine. As she unbuckles her seatbelt, he rushes to undo his as well and flies out of the truck to her side. When he opens her door, her face looks like she’s about to laugh at him as she hops down onto the sidewalk.

“Let me walk you to your door.” She blinks at him, as if waiting for him to say more. So he does. “You never know what could happen in the fifteen feet there. You could get mugged or something.”

The motion sensor lights flicker on as they reach the front porch, casting a dim warm light above them. Jake can feel the bass of the music still blasting under his sneakers. It’s a sick beat, but he can’t concentrate enough to make clear of the muffled singing.

He puffs out his cheeks and slaps his hands together quietly. They had one really good night together, so he doesn’t want to jump the gun and say something too soon, but: “I like you.”

She smiles a closed-mouth smile. “I like you too.”

Scuffing the toe of his converse, he shoves his hands in his jean pockets.  _Screw it. Now or never, Peralta_.

Jake steps forward and rips his hands out to pull her against him, his heart beating faster when she gasps and braces her palms on his shoulders. His hands slide up her hips, slowly and smoothly up her sides to frame her face. He thumbs the soft apples of her cheek, and under the glow of the light he watches her eyes flutter shut, graceful like butterfly wings. His heart is pounding against his ribcage now, so loud it drowns out the slow deep bass. Lowering his head until their noses touch, he lets out a stuttery breath. “I think I’m falling in like with you.”

She exhales loudly and he feels it against his face; it’s warm and nice. Her hands slide down his chest, and he bites back a ticklish laugh. They hook around his wrist. For a beat, he’s afraid she’s going to wrench away his hands and push him back, but everything goes  _duuuuuuuuuh_ when she jumps up and smashes their mouths together.

The kiss is weird. He’s never kissed a girl like this before—slow and soft and like he needs to know that she’s enjoying it too. He pulls away to ask her if she is, but her hands yank him back and he laughs into her mouth, breathing his happiness into her.

“We should do this again,” he says after she’s had enough. He waves back at his truck so she knows he’s not specifically talking about the kiss (but yeah, definitely the kiss too). “But you know, romantic stylez.”

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

He shrugs, dropping his head. Holy crappity-crap, what if she just wanted this one night to relieve stress? Like a one-night stand? He feels so  _used_.

She punches his arm, like she knows what he’s thinking, and when he looks at her again, she’s smiling. “As long as we don’t get arrested.”

He smiles back. “I don’t know, I think it would be interesting seeing how you’d fare in a holding cell with hookers, insanely violent cat ladies and Burta, the really touchy homeless lady who lives on my street.”

“Shut up.”

He laughs at the face she makes and drags her back in to smash their faces together.

**Author's Note:**

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